Larry L. Franklin's Blog, page 17

Mother’s Day meal created by Larry, the man with a crack in his back who happens to like green eggs and ham.

This is the big time — Mother’s Day — when I step forward and prepare the meal.  My wife, daughter, her two daughters, husband, and a dog named Bailey, will be joining hands around the table, anxiously waiting to see what I have prepared.  Our other daughter, husband, and two daughters live in Madison, WI and will have their own meal.  I can only imagine their Mother’s Day meal.  Since they are into the Green Bay Packers and the University of Wisconsin sports, I imagine that they will have cheese, grilled badger meat, and lots of wine.  Well the girls will drink something a bit lighter.

My menu:

Grilled Chicken Kabobs, properly seasoned

Grilled green, red, and yellow peppers,

onions, and zucchini.

(for a bit of color, melted butter and kitchen bouquet)

Baked Beans — the granddaughters can make a meal out of beans

Baked Potato & Sweet Potato — Potato of your choice

Salad

French Bread

Dessert — store bought Velvet Creme cake with Mother’s Day written on top.

I also have some mini cones with sprinkles if the girls don’t like the cake.

The activities before the meal are very important — crucial.  Always serve plenty of dry & semi-sweet wine, beer should be available, non-alcoholic drink for  the girls.  The purpose of the wine is three fold — mellow everybody out so we will like each other, makes the food taste better, and is used for toasting the mothers.  The toast must be prepared — no slurring the words or mental gaps.  Something like — “I would like to make a toast to the most important people sitting at our table.  The mothers.  In truth, we should celebrate Mother’s Day every day of the year.  That’s how important they are.”  Not only does it make the mothers feel good, it teaches a lesson to the young daughters that men can be cool on one day of the year. And if everything is successful, and I mean everything, the men might get lucky.

FYI — Thank God Mother’s Day is one day of the year, and Father’s Day is 364 days, except for leap year and then it is 365.

 

Tagged: creative writing, humor

I’m having an affair with a “sweetie.”

I’m 71 years old and I’m having an affair with a “sweetie.”  To be more accurate, I’m hooking up with more than one.  It probably sounds crazy, perhaps a little sick.  But I can’t help myself.  And I like them all — the tall slim ones, the fuller body types, and the color makes no difference.  Do I have an over active libido?  Perhaps.

I’ve always been attracted to the “sweeties.”  Even as a boy the temptation was strong, so strong that someone in my church told me that if I masturbated I would go blind.  Needless to say that scared the hell out of me.  Still, I began wearing glasses when I was five years old.  Go figure.  But my current urges are stronger that ever.

It all began a little over a week ago.  I found this place, club, or whatever.  I can’t be specific because I don’t think that this is legal.  Anyway, I walked in and there were several sweeties on display.  A woman asked me what I wanted.  “Well, I’m not sure.  What do you have and what is the cost?”  There were lots of choices, but let me just say that they were attractive and the price was reasonable.  I left with a tall, slim, dark one and a cup of coffee.  Years ago I might have had a cigarette.  But now I prefer a cup of coffee after and sometimes during. You might think that we went to a hotel.  No, there wasn’t a need for that.  My car worked just fine.  I moved the seat back and the two of us listened to the radio, a little conversation, and then — delicious.  Of course I have not told my wife about that experience.  In fact, I’ve been going to the establishment two or three times a week.

My story began when my wife decided to lose 10 pounds and went on a diet.  She really didn’t need to lose weight, but that was her decision.  As part of her diet, no carbs or sugar — the two things that I crave.  In case you’re interested, I’ll give you the name of the establishment where I make my purchases.  It’s called “Larry’s House of Cakes.”  (Larry’s my name but this is just a coincidence.)  Two days ago I had a chocolate long john and a cup of coffee in my car.  Yesterday I ate one candy bar and hide another one in the refrigerator in the garage.  Today I had a donut and coffee in my car.  I’ve hidden all kinds of sweets throughout our house.  This has added a new level of excitement to my life.  Even after my wife ends her diet, I’ll probably continue my trips to “Larry’s House of Cakes” and take a sweetie and a cup of coffee to my car. I know, I’m such a rascal.

Tagged: Creating writing, humor

How to write a “kick-ass” sentence

Mnemosyne: A Love Affair with Memory

It’s interesting how skills acquired during one occupation are applied to a future endeavor.  I’m thinking about the connection between music and writing: how to perform or write the perfect phrase.  I have my bachelor’s and master’s degrees in music, played first trumpet in the US Navy Band in Washington, D.C., and taught trumpet at Southern Illinois University for five years before moving to a different profession.  My trumpet performances and teachings were focused on the classical genre where perfection is the key.  The great musicians perform a near, and sometimes perfect phrase, while the lesser musician’s efforts are sprinkled with flaws.  A tone as pure and clear as a freshly fallen snow, meticulous mechanics, and your musicianship lead to perfection.

Musicians have different ways of achieving perfection.  I used a technique common to both musical performance and writing that originated in my 6 x 10 foot cell-like, smoke-filled studio:  two filing cabinets leaned against one wall, a couple of chairs and a black music stand stood in the center, a tile floor partially covered with cigarette ashes, a desk marked by cigarette burns and coffee spills, and a reel-to-reel tape recorder waiting to record the perfect phrase.  Smoking cigarettes was a large part of the process, but that’s when smoking was cool.  Each recording was viewed through my internal microscope as I examined the cell structure of each musical phrase.  It had to be perfect.

In 2003 I received my MFA in creative nonfiction writing at Goucher College in Baltimore, Maryland, which served as an incubator for my growth as a writer.  I read book after book, and secretly hoped that each author’s creativity would magically slip through the pores of my skin.  Eventually I returned to the techniques that I had learned as a musician:  how to perform the perfect phrase.

Oh, what makes a perfect phrase/sentence, the one that makes goose bumps appear on your skin, curls your toes until they begin to cramp, gives you the illusion that you are a great writer, and allows your emotions to drift to a higher, more spiritual place?  A certain amount of the perfection is in the eyes of the beholder. That makes sense.  But you can study the works of the authors who have grabbed a critics praise, impressed academia, and yes, are worthy of your time.  What is it about that particularly sentence that stirs your interest, and causes you to sit with the author and imagine what he/she did to produce such a masterpiece?  Thank God for my internal microscope, or “shit detector” that has given me the ability to determine what makes a sentence work.  (I wrote an earlier blog about the value of a shit detector.)  The process did not happen in that same smoke-filled, cell-like studio that I had used decades earlier.  I moved from one coffee shop to another, sometimes a McDonalds, my home office which my wife calls my “man cave,” and in the confines of my head.  Writers constantly think about their work.

I remember reading “On a Hill Far Away,” a short story by Annie Dillard, and being so taken by a particularly sentence.  “In Virginia, late one January afternoon while I had a leg of lamb in the oven, I took a short walk.”  Dillard provided the unexpected punch that caused me to read and reread the simple sentence.  Oh, if I could write like that, I thought.  I tried duplicating the structure and strength of Dillard’s sentence.  Sometimes I almost succeeded, but most efforts ended up as waded, crunched up pages lying in and around my trash can.  I chewed on each word of that sentence, swallowed it, and now have it as a part of my DNA.  While reading the entire story was important, I learned more from dissecting that single sentence.

What about “The Bell Jar,” by Sylvia Plath?  She could put together a strain of words that would rip the heart from your chest.  “It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York.  I’m stupid about executions.  The idea of being electrocuted makes me sick, and that’s all there was to read about in the papers — google-eyed headlines staring up at me on every street corner and at the fusty, peanut-smelling mouth of every subway.”  Oh my God that was so good.  Get the idea? I tasted the flavor of each word and even memorized one sentence at a time.  This is what makes a great writer.

Another example of some remarkable writing is drawn from “Seabiscuit:  An American Legend,” by Laura Hillenbrand.  I was particularly taken by a her description of Tom Smith, the manager of the race horse, Seabiscuit.  He was fifty-six but he looked much older.  His jaw had a recalcitrant jut to it that implied a run-in with something — an errant hoof or an ill-placed fence post — but maybe it was the only shape in which it could have been drawn.  He had a colorless translucence about him that made him seem as if he were in the earliest stages of progressive invisibility.” 

With each example, notice the rhythms, the punctuations, the tension and release, the vocabulary and the use of action verbs.  It’s how the authors use the tools of their trade that creates interest, excites your emotions, and can even stir your hormones.  If you can’t get this excited about writing, then you should consider doing something else.  Life is too short.

For your information, I found “Literary Nonfiction,” by Patsy Sims to be quite helpful in examining the author’s craft.  Sims takes a close, analytical look at outstanding contemporary essays by fifteen accomplished writers.  Examine powerful writing, that’s what Sims does.

Tagged: compassionate & compelling stories, creative nonfiction writing, creative writing, Goucher college, writing techniques, writing tecnhiques

The man with a crack in his back likes green eggs and ham.

Mnemosyne: A Love Affair with Memory

It has been so long since I last wrote a blog.  What seemed so smooth and effortless has become herky-jerky as I stutter through broken words.  I have lost my rhythm.  In a rut, that’s where I am, where life is sustained more by the involuntary movements of my heart and diaphragm; unable to feel the gentle rhythmic flow of life’s changing meters.  Younger people might say that I have lost my “mojo.”  But for me, it’s all about rhythm.

I think that I’ll try writing about this man called “me:”  A musician/financial planner/writer, a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, who had a crack in his back and just happened to love green eggs and ham.  He is a complicated man with complicated ways, and yes, a bit strange, that’s what his friends might say.  Even through difficult times, he managed to maintain a primitive rhythm, more of a “boom-chick-boom-chick,” but not the hypnotic, sensual feeling that he had grown accustomed to.  How can I explain the concept to those who have never danced like a child, placed a piece of popcorn between their lips and transferred it to their dog, or became — even for a few seconds — part of the moment?  Oh the rhythmic sound of a childhood story that makes you want to dance in circles as you read to a child.  Slide into the feel of “Green eggs and ham,” as you say Sam, I am, Oh Sam, I am, I don’t like those green eggs and ham.  But in truth, I do like green eggs and ham, even with some toast and jam.

Back pain, yes that God-awful mother-fucking back pain turned off the metronome in my life.  Two years ago I began the quarterly trips to pain management where an injection of goodies were shot into my back.  Good while it lasted, that’s what I say, I say to Dr. Sam who knew my ways, but said that he will no longer play.  Then the pain, pain, pain that lasted for three weeks until the surgeon repaired two herniated disks in my lower back.  It was like magic, the pain was gone and I began to write again.  I’ve got rhythm, I’ve got rhythm, who could ask for anything more?  Then as if God had decided to tease me a bit, the pain began in another place, my sacroiliac joint to be exact.  The writing stopped. In order to avoid another trip to the operating table, my surgeon suggested that I go to a chiropractor whom he believed might reduce my pain.  Well, four weeks later the pain is decreasing and I’m beginning to feel the rhythm.  No boom-chick, boom-chick, for me.  It’s more of an effortless changing of meters from 2/4 to 5/8 to 3//2 to 13/8.  Words are beginning to fly off of the keyboard, my mind feels all blurry and good and a bit goofy.  Sam I am, I am, don’t let me down said the man with a crack in his back who just happens to like green eggs and ham.

Tagged: and a creative mind, compassionate & compelling stories, creative mind, life's rhythm, metaphors

Truth? You have to work at it.

Lies, lies, there are so many lies.  As a society, we’ve become very good at spinning tales which are presented as the truth.  And the biggest lies of all are broadcast over the airwaves; nonstop, twenty-four hours a day.  It’s so bad that each political slant has it’s own network hell-bent on promoting their own political agenda by, you guessed it, lies.  At first, it was more subtle; photoshop, cut and paste, and the distorted truth became a lie.  Now, the truth is as difficult to find as fireflies on a sunny day.

I’m reminded of the 1881 fairy tale about Pinocchio, the wooden marionette carved by Geppetto, a bachelor who yearned for a real boy of his own.   Eventually, through a lot of hoping, praying, and imagination, the good fairy changed Pinocchio into a real boy.  But wait, the good fairy would not tolerant lies.  She told Pinocchio that if he told a lie his nose would grow.  Well, you guessed it, Pinocchio told a string of lies and surprise — Pinocchio’s nose grew so long that he couldn’t get out of his house.  (Imagine our House of Representatives with noses so long that they would fill the chamber.  And those nose hairs.  Yuck.)  To save Pinocchio, woodpeckers flew into the house and pecked at his nose until it became the normal size.  Moral of the story — don’t lie or your nose will grow.

In the days when I was a boy, parents handed out advice that was designed to keep you from lying or doing “bad” things.  If you make a bad face your face will freeze in that position for the rest of your life.  Make your eyes go cross and they will remain cross.    I heard this one at the church  – If you masturbate  you will go blind.  That one scared the hell out of me.  Well, I didn’t go blind but I am a bit near-sighted and have worn glasses since I was five years old.  Go figure.  My mother’s favorite — Rich people aren’t happy.  You’re lucky that we’re poor.  Another of her favorites — If you stay out past midnight, you can’t be doing anything good.  Well, I’ll have to give her that one.  About telling the truth:  if you don’t tell the truth something bad will happen to you, and yes, you will go to hell.

Our reality, the truth as we see it, is based on a combination of our genetic makeup and our life experiences; nuture and nature, that’s what they call it.  If we follow this line of thought, each person will have a unique opinion of the truth.  Some people might say that the Bible holds the truth.  Well, that might be true, but as soon as you read it the words become mixed with your concept of reality.  The truth becomes less clear.

I’m reminded of something that a buddhist monk once said, When you think that you have all of the answers, you’ve lost your way.  Now we don’t have a treasury map for finding the truth.  We do what we have to do — read, listen, think, look within.  Truth brings peace.

Tagged: creative writing, lies, look within, read, study, think, truth

A phone call from a prison cell that houses the mentally ill.

Just talked with a friend who happens to be in prison for allegedly killing her five-year-old stepdaughter.  No, we weren’t talking over a cup of coffee at the local coffeehouse where we met and greeted each other with a hug, followed by a “how are you doing?”  It was another telephone call from a prison constructed with concrete and metal pipes.  God, it’s a cold, hard place where she has lived for the past fifteen years with some forty-five years to go.  I’m certain that a lot of you are thinking that it’s appropriate that she lives in such a place, and is left to suffer every second of the day after day, after day, after day….  After all, she killed God’s greatest creation, a precious child.  I have to admit that there was a time when I, for a minute or two, felt the same way.  It was the time when I saw the photos of the little girl taken by the pathologist.  Her face was smashed, bruised, and then I saw her swollen brain.  I nearly vomited.  I swallowed hard, pushing the vile matter further down into my stomach.  But I still remember the image.

Now I see things quite differently.  Becca is a friend of mine who suffers from a severe mental illness and just happened to do a very bad, unimaginable thing.  Now that Becca is on her medications and away from the violent men in her life, she is a different person: a good person, a loving person, who suffers everyday of her life.

Becca’s life was a combination of factors that we see quite often today.  It was a formula destined for tragedy.  Lets see if we can put the pieces together — a heavy dose of a severe mental illness, no medication, three abusive husbands who beat the shit out of her, and a mental health system that fell short.  Each time Becca went into a mental hospital, she received treatment for about seven days where she was put on medication and a few therapy sessions.  Oh, I almost forgot, she was in the hospital for thirty days one time.  But each time she came out of the hospital she went back to her family and friends, back to the things that had destroyed her.  We’ve heard the same song before, and the lyrics cry out for help.  It’s not in the top forty, but it’s still there for all to hear, if they would only listen.

I’m sorry if I had to rant over my lost cause.  But Becca is my friend and I had to write something.  God help the mentally ill.

***

Becca was the character in my second book, “Cherry Blossoms & Baren Plains:  A woman’s journey from mental illness to a prison cell.”

Tagged: bipolar disorder, Mental Illness, physical and sexual abuse

Fish heads in an open bag — listening to the mentally ill.

These  are excerpts taken from my second book, “Cherry Blossoms & Barren Plains:  A woman’s journey from mental illness to a prison cell.”  I have drawn from the chapter called Fish heads in an open bag. Becca, the subject of my book was serving sixty years for allegedly killing her five-year-old stepdaughter.

***

I have listened to Becca for hours upon hours.  In every season of each passing year, I have sat across from her in the visit room looking at her drawn and tired face, listening to her struggle to find ways of expressing her mental and emotional realities.  What she says is not always cohesive, or narratively coherent, but over time, I have learned to piece together the fragments of her mental processes, and the images that she sees, in ways that blend with my imagination.  If Becca hears “voices” or “racing thoughts,” it might now be said that I do, as well.  I believe that I understand her and can, in one sense, show what Becca might say if she could find the words.

My name is Becca.  It was the 1980′s.  I was barely a teenager and the summer days were long and dry.  Bacon was frying in a black metal skillet, and the morning was clear.  My mother was talking and pouring her first cup of coffee.  Her voice was faint and the words made no sense and the sounds became one; like the annoying hum of a fluorescent light.  She probably told me that Dad and my brother were going fishing for the day, or that my room was a mess, or that I was just a bad kid.

I might have been thinking about the fish heads I saw at Friday night’s fish fry.  The severed heads were stuffed into open bags.  The bodies were gutted, washed, and rolled in seasoned flour, and cooked in black skillets like my mother used.  The heads were alive.  The eyes and mouths continued to open and close, and called out for help.  Their misery was real and hard, just like mine.  My mother’s shouting brought me back to her reality.  My mind jumped around a lot in those days.  Maybe that’s when my mind began to slip away.

The voices have no name.  They’re not these booming commandments from up above or down below.  They’re more like thoughts, racing thoughts that pound the inside of my head like a jackhammer.  Sometimes I write the words on a piece of paper, and then another, and another. Later, when I’m kind of normal, people tell me that the words make no sense.  They stare at me like I’m different, and then they turn and walk away.  It’s so lonely in my world of cherry blossoms and barren plains.  I wish that I could take you one a tour of my brain.  All of the twists and turn through the cerebral matter must be a bit like running through a maze.  Wherever I turn, I’m always lost.

It’s been nearly ten years and some ten-thousand pills later, since I killed Dani.  I can barely say it since I still don’t remember doing it.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about it.  But each time I try, I end up seeing fish heads in an open bag.  Now I try not to think about that part.  I just think about what a wonderful girl Dani was.  I tell Larry, my writer friend to write more about Dani.  I want everyone to know her like I did.  I want them to know how she liked to read books, listen to music, and play make-up.  I bought her a long blond hair piece.  She loved wearing that hair piece.  

I haven’t gone completely manic since I’ve been here.  I take my meds eery day.  I can’t take a chance on losing control of myself.  But the meds are not easy.  I never feel right.  My hands shake, I get nervous, and I always have some kind of depression.  Sometimes I wonder if that’s God’s way of letting me know that I’m a bad person.  But that’s not what my psychologist says.  I get to see him one time a month.  And that’s not what Larry or the Pastor say.

How do you know when you begin to lose your mind?  I don’t think that you can pick a certain day, an exact time, or even an unusual event.  Maybe it’s a bit like cancer.  One day a doctor tells you that the MRI shows a cancerous growth the size of a grapefruit, and if untreated, you will die.  The tumor had been growing for some time, somewhere in your body, unseen by the naked eye.

My mental illness was the same and went undetected until the doctors told me in 1993 that I was bipolar, and if untreated, I would lose my mind.  Looking back, I believe it began the day when I saw fish heads in an open bag.  But as bad as I felt, I’ve always had my doubters.  Some think that I faked it and used mental illness as an excuse for my violent behavior.  Others believe that I’m an agent for the devil.  But until you’ve visited the dark side and felt my torment, I’m here to say that mental illness is for real.

Tagged: abuse, bipolar disorder, childhood abuse, creative nonfiction, Goucher college, Mental Illness, murder, prison inmates

A soul-sucking depression

It was a cold, fall day.  Red weathered Maple leaves were on the ground.  Becca and I were sitting in the visit room at the Dwight Correctional Center where she was serving a sixty-year sentence for allegedly killing her five-year-old step-daughter.  Becca still does not remember committing the crime, but believes that she did because the authorities told her that she did.  I often wonder if Becca’s abusive husband might have killed the little girl.  The two of us, Becca and I, had numerous visits spread over a three year period.  I continually tried to crawl into her mind and grab hold of her feelings; experience her emotions, and then put them into words.  As a writer, that’s my job.

Throughout my book, “Cherry Blossoms & Barren Plains:  A woman’s journey from mental illness to a prison cell,” I used metaphors to describe Becca’s mental state.  ”It was as if someone or something, possibly alien, took over her mind.  I can see how an imaginary octopus-like creature might have controlled her thoughts.  Living in the lowest part of her brain and hidden by darkness, this creature, the one I imagined, reached outward with it eight tentacles, each lined with two rows of suction cups, and latched onto her mind.   No one escaped its grip.  When threatened, it released an inky-black liquid that allowed it to slip away.  Even if one of its tentacles was severed, one quickly regrew, making it impossible to kill.  This octopus-like creature, the one that I imagined, the one that invaded Becca’s mind, is called bipolar disorder, also known as manic-depressive illness.”

I’ve felt the soul-sucking depression before.  Not to the extent of someone suffering from bipolar disorder, but enough to put me into a fetal-like position, while I waited for the darkness to pass.  It was the same feelings I experienced in therapy when I relived my memories of childhood sexual abuse.  The idea was to desensitize the feelings of depression so I could better manage them.  ”Manage” is the key word.  They never completely go away.  Now, I sense when depression is on the horizon.  Although it moves in like a fog at morning’s first light, it’s quite different. A black fog, yes that’s what it is.  One that seeps upward through the earth’s crust, and most likely originates from hell. The devil must regurgitate this foul smelling substance and send it my way.  Sometimes I run away or walk around it.  Other times I am able to muster up an invisible shield that protects me from its onslaught.  But I must admit that there are moments when the black fog reaches me as I struggle to escape.  If unchecked, it can engulf me into total darkness with no way to escape.  Sometimes I play dead until it passes.  For some, it can be so bad that they choose to die.

One time, while in a sleep-like meditation, I thought about the people who weren’t able to escape depression.  I was focused on a person that I had known from years past.  She was found hanging from the ceiling.  How could she have chosen such a painful way to end her life, I thought.  Then, right before my eyes, I imagined this person like I had never seen her before.  I believe that she showed me an image if her inner self on that tragic day.  No words were needed.  The dark bags under her eyes pulled her sight downward.  Skin the color of tree rot covered his face.  And if she had tried to smile, her face would have broken into a billion pieces.  The hair on her head had been pulled in different directions at the same time.  This woman yearned to scream, but she was unable to utter a single sound.  And then came the blackbirds singing in the dark black night.  There was no escape.  She chose to die.  

Tagged: bipolar disorder, creative nonfiction writing, Depression, Mental Illness

A worthy cause, my favorite, I might add.

I’ve been a board member of the Women’s Center for several years.   I was recently asked to write a fund raising letter for the organization.  Hopefully this will move you to consider the Women’s Center to be worthy of your support.

***

Dear Women’s Center supporter:

Imagine what it’s like to be a bird without wings, Who’s fallen into a hole and not allowed to sing. Imagine what it’s like to be a beautiful whale, With no place to swim but a five-gallon pale.     …male survivor of childhood sexual abuse

It could be in the middle of the night when a woman knocks at our door, shaking as she nervously asks for help. The makeup could not hide the blows to her face. She is without money, a safe place to stay, accompanied by the belief that she had done something wrong. She brings her daughter, as well, who wonders why the Daddy she loves always hits and swears. Perhaps there’s a telephone call to the hotline, where a volunteer hopes to convince a desperate woman that tonight is not the time to die. Or possibly someone calls from the hospital emergency room reporting a rape. Women, men, children, sexual orientation, it makes no difference.

The Women’s Center, established in 1972, continues to provide services to the surrounding counties. In 2013, we assisted 141 children and 862 adults with 11,715 hours of domestic violence services; 6,713 nights of domestic violence and 5,413 nights of transitional housing; and 16,429 meals to residents in shelter. Public edu- cation, professional training, orders of protection, and hotline calls are provided as well.

Thanks to you, we have expanded and updated our facilities. We have little debt and manage to show a respectable balance sheet. But where we struggle is raising enough money to maintain a $1.3 million dollar budget. We receive our financial support from various federal, state, and private grants, and donations from you. We face an annual increase in services while governmental budget cuts leave us with less. I wish you could come to ground zero and watch the dedicated work of our staff. You would soon learn that they are underpaid angels, doing God’s work.

Whether you are a first-time donor, or one that continues to offer us a lifeline, we need your help. This can be done as annual contributions, or through planned giving, a means of providing future financial support with no upfront cost. For now, we ask you to forget the tax benefits in giving. Just think about the abused woman knocking at our door, the child who still loves her Daddy, the raped woman lying on a hospital bed, or the woman who believes that tonight is the time to die. There are so many of them.

Sincerely,

Larry L. Franklin

Board Member

Development Committee Member

Tagged: abuse, domestic violence, rape, sexual abuse

Cowboys & Indians, to Gangsters, to War Games, to Stand your Ground.

Mnemosyne: A Love Affair with Memory

Oh my, where have the years gone?  I’m 71 years old and have seen lots of stuff:  good, bad, and some that I can’t talk about.  But with the help of a good therapist, and a load of self exploration, I believe that I have grown both spiritually and intellectually.  Too bad I can’t  say that about our society.  I’m reminded of Richard Semon, a 19th century scientist and one of the characters in my latest book, “Mnemosyne:  A Love Affair with Memory,” who believed that while 19th century science had advanced by leaps and bounds, society’s spiritual growth remained dormant.  Centuries later, I’m thinking the same.

As a child, I played cowboys and Indians.  I was the cowboy who shot the Indian.  Boy, did I fuck that one up.  Eventually I learned that the Indians were the good guys.  Then came the detectives against the gangsters.  Except for Bonnie and Clyde, I always shot the gangster.  As time passed, I moved into war games where I was an American soldier who shot anyone who didn’t look like me.  In all of these adventures it was understood that they were games, consisting of toy guns and make-believe deaths, and a good versus evil theme throughout.  It wasn’t real.  It was “child’s play.”  But for Jordan Davis and Travyon Martin, it was not “child’s play.”  It was murder.

When did we decide that it was okay to carry a handgun and ignore the need to step back from a perceived danger?  Illinois, the place I call home, has become the final state to approve “concealed carry,” and many other states have approved the “stand your ground” law.  ”Concealed carry” is when your handgun is hidden from plain site.  The “stand your ground” law states that you can use deadly force and that you do not have a duty to retreat if  you reasonably believe that such force is necessary to prevent imminent death or great bodily harm to yourself.  Now I’m not against hand guns.  I completed two eight-week classes at a local community college on the defensive use of handguns.  Both were excellent classes which stressed safety, shooting technique, and defensive plans to protect my family against home intruders.  In fact, I enjoy shooting my handgun and do so to maintain my skills.  I’m all for the 2nd amendment but things have gone crazy.  I don’t feel like I should always carry a gun and grow an extra set of balls.  Hey, that’s not me.  I’m a writer and one set of balls is fine with me.

When did “child’s play” become real life?  When did we decide that it was okay for George Zimmerman to stalk Trayvon Martin, get into a confrontation, kill him, and then say that he was just defending himself.  Oh, I forgot.  Trayvon was a black teenager who wore a hoodie in the dark of night.  OMG, he wore a hoodie.  And I almost forgot that Trayvon had been to the store, bought a bad of skittles, and was walking home.  Now it makes sense — black teenager, hoodie, bag of skittles.  We all know that Trayvon’s death could have been avoided.  Zimmerman was found not guilty.

What about Jordon Davis, the latest tragedy which caused me to write this blog?  Jordon was another black teenager who was shot to death by a white man.  Jordon and three other black teenagers were in a black SUV socializing as most teenagers do.  Their car was sitting at a gas station while they chilled out listening to loud, bass thumping rap music.  We’ve all heard it, and yes, it can be annoying.  Michael Dunn parked his car next to Jordon’s while Dunn’s finance walked into the station to make a purchase.  Now the story is beginning to make sense — black teenagers, black SUV, loud bass thumping rap music.  Now that would scare the hell out of any white dude.  Dunn rolls down his window and politely asks the occupants of the SUV to turn down the music.  Well, that’s what Dunn said.  The black teenagers turned down the music, but after some discussion they increased the volume of that loud, bass thumping rap music.  Now we had a pissed-off white man and a car full of loud black teenagers.  Dunn said that he was disrespected and that Jordon was beginning to step out of the SUV, and appeared to have what looked like a shotgun.  Dunn retrieved his handgun from the glove compartment, and quickly fired several rounds into the SUV.  And as the SUV sped away, Dunn fired the remainder of his 10 round clip into the SUV.  Jordon Davis died from gunshot wounds.  Dunn said that he feared for his life and no son-of-a-bitch was going to kill him.  No gun was ever found in the black teenager’s car.  Let’s see, how does this work — concealed carry, stand your ground, an extra set of balls, and no one is going to fuck with me.  The jury was unable to decide whether Dunn’s killing of Jordon was self defense or murder.  We ended with a hung jury.

Where does all of this leave me?  I like most people, in fact, I love several of them.  I have more than one handgun to protect my family, and would shoot someone if it was absolutely necessary.  But I consider myself a tolerant person and don’t feel threatened when I see a black teenager wear a hoodie, or a car load of black teenagers play loud, bass thumping rap music.  I sometimes wear hoodies and sometimes have my car radio turned up, and yes, my wife says that I play the music too loud.  I believe that it’s okay to sometimes step back and walk the other way.  Killing someone is a heavy load to carry.  But hey, that’s just me.  I’m a writer and I only have one set of balls.

Tagged: Childhood sexual abuse, concealed carry, creative writing, murder, race, spiritual growth, stand your ground